


The Eighth Deadly Sin

by Morgan Briarwood (morgan32)



Series: Slouching Toward Bethlehem [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Succubus, daddycest, fuck-or-die, psychic!Sam, spn:season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-13
Updated: 2009-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan%20Briarwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Yellow-Eyed Demon is dead and all three of the Winchesters are still alive. Does that mean it's over? Sam is hopeful; John knows better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eighth Deadly Sin

### The End 

John Winchester had never thought of himself as a coward, but he did today.

He told himself he was doing this for his boys. Sam was going to need his brother very badly in the months ahead. John wanted to believe that he could save Sammy but he knew now that his relationship with his youngest son was broken beyond repair. Sam didn’t trust him, and John had to face the fact that he was largely responsible for that. So Sam needed his brotherand Dean was dying.

Even if John hadn’t known what was coming for Sammy, he couldn’t sit there and watch his son die. His sons were all that mattered to him. No price was too high to have Dean alive and well again.

John could tell himself these things, and they were true, but there was a deeper truth. The truth that John was a coward. The deepest truth of all was that John had gone up against the yellow-eyed son of a bitch once already, and he lost. The demon possessed him. It smoked past John’s attempt to fight it off, mocking his feeble defences. It used his body to torture his sons. He no longer truly believed he could beat it.

And Jim Murphy, one of the few men on this earth John could truly call friend, was dead, his throat slashed in his own church for the crime of knowing the Winchesters. Caleb, another man he could rely on, breathed his last while John listened, impotent to prevent it. Just as he had watched Mary die, unable to reach her through the flames that filled the nursery.

John could not bear the thought that he might outlive his sons, too.

He thought he’d concealed his intentions from Sammy, but he knew Dean would see right through his careful words to the steel-cold determination beneath. It wasn’t possible to say the things he must say without also showing Dean that something was very wrong.

The sight of Dean sitting up in the hospital bed, awake and talking and _alive_ was worth everything.

So John spoke the words, giving Dean the only warning he dared to give, praying his son would understand. Dean would live and he would do everything possible to keep Sammy safe. There was nothing left to do but keep his side of the bargain.

The brown paper bag wrapped around the precious Colt crackled beneath John’s fingers. He felt the smooth steel of the gun through the paper but did not take it out of the bag: he couldn’t wave a gun around in a hospital. For a last, reckless moment he wondered what would happen if instead of handing it over he took the Colt and But no. A deal is a deal, even if it’s a deal with the devil. His boys were safe.

John laid the still-wrapped Colt on the table.

The yellow-eyed son of a bitch didn’t even look at the gun. It didn’t seem to care about the Colt. It wanted John.

John was ready. “Okay,” he said. He saw the demon begin to smile.

The gunshot echoed loudly in the small room.

Instinct kicked in and John dived for the nearest cover, Pain shot through his injured leg and he reached automatically for the knife that was the only other weapon he carried. John didn’t see the demon fall, but he felt the shock of static like St Elmo’s fire across his skin. He smelled gunpowder. He heard a body hit the ground. He didn’t fully understand what had happened until he heard Sam’s voice.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

John rose to his feet, slowly because his wounded leg and arm still hurt. He saw Sam half-concealed by the bed curtain, the still-smoking Colt in his hand. He saw the demon’s body on the ground, a pool of blood slowly spreading out from its head. He saw the smoking bullet hole right between the son of a bitch’s eyes.

There was no air in the room.

Sam met John’s astounded eyes. He did not look happy.

*

### The Beginning 

After almost twenty three years searching for the demon, it was hard to believe that it was really over.

The Winchesters left a dead body behind them in the hospital, a body no one would be able to explain. Bobby offered them house-room so they could lick their wounds and John accepted his offer gratefully.

Dean seemed fully recovered from the terrible injuries he sustained in the crash. Hours before he had been dying; now he was the healthiest man of his battered but unbowed family. Sam was pretty banged up from the crash: nothing that wouldn’t heal, but he needed some recovery time. John had a bullet wound in his leg, one arm in a sling and a hell of a headache from the concussion.

All three of them would be under suspicion for the murder: they were going to need new IDs, new credit cards. It could be done, but it would take time. John had a complete new identity prepared, but the paperwork and cards were hidden in his truck, which was still in Lincoln. But they had a safe haven with Bobby, which gave them time to take stock, to decide where they should go next.

When Dean saw what was left of his beloved Impala in Bobby’s junkyard, he didn’t stop swearing for at least an hour.

Sammy was being very quiet; he’d barely spoken since they left the hospital. There was a storm brewing behind his brooding eyes.

As for John...John had been hunting for too long to believe it was over.

The yellow-eyed demon was dead, truly dead. Sam killed it, using the last of the bullets made for the legendary Colt. Mary’s murder was avenged. Whatever plans the demon had for Sammy became abruptly irrelevant. But John knew too much to trust this meant they were safe. Destiny was not so easily thwarted. The war was still coming; perhaps the demon’s death had pushed it back a few years, but there were always more demons. Sammy, and the others like him, would still be targets when the time came.

But for now, they had a space of time to be safe and to rest.

*

As night fell, John sat on the rusty hood of one of the cars in Bobby’s junkyard, a hip flask of Bobby’s whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t drunk, but he was thinking about it, if only because alcohol was a decent painkiller and the bullet hole in his leg was bothering him more than he wanted to admit. He would need more than the hip flask if he planned to get seriously wasted.

He heard someone behind him, and turned to see Sam walking from the house. The small cuts and bruises on Sam’s face were healing nicely. He walked tall, the easy movement of his body reassuring John that the boy’s other, minor injuries were healed. Sam was young, his recovery time much faster than John’s. Sam reached him and silently sat down beside him on the hood. Without a word, John offered Sam the hip flask.

Sam took it and drank. “How could you make a deal with that thing?” he demanded belligerently.

So he wanted to fight. Again. John turned to look at his son. In the fading evening light, Sam’s eyes seemed almost black as he returned John’s gaze, challenging.

How could John explain it to Sam? Sam wasn’t asking why John made a deal: he already knew what John stood to gain from it. It was the deeper explanation he wanted. The demon killed the woman Sam loved. Sam was young, his need for revenge fresh. No wonder he didn’t understand John’s willingness to cut a deal.

How could John explain that he had simply reached his breaking point? He had been fighting for too long. He knew that. Not even the best of men can fight for twenty years without a break and not burn out. John was so very, very tired of this war. When the demon finally resurfaced after so long and John found the last of the answers he’d been seeking, he knew he wouldn’t live to see the end of it. He’d resigned himself to that, accepted it, wanted it, even, because he knew living to see the end would almost certainly mean outliving his children.

Now the demon was dead, and John didn’t know how to handle it. He never thought he would see this day.

But he couldn’t explain any of that to Sam. So, instead of answering Sam’s question, what John said was, “Have you told your brother?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Not yet, but I think he has a right to know. Seriously, Dad, what the hell were you thinking?”

That one, at least, John could answer. “Dean was about to die. _You_ demanded I do something, Sammy. This was the only way to save Dean.” Only one way to save both of you.

Sam was avoiding his eyes again. “Was your deal only for the Colt?”

From the house behind them, John heard the strains of a Johnny Cash song on the radio. He gave Sam the truth. “No. It wasn’t just for the Colt.” He didn’t need to elaborate. Sam knew what a deal with a demon entailed.

“You fucking stupid...”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” John snapped automatically, his temper rising as it so-easily did when he was with Sam.

“I’m sick of this need-to-know crap! I’m sick of you hiding the truth from me! Both of you.”

John could have yelled back. Two days earlier, he would have. Tonight, he swallowed his irritation with an effort, bit back the angry words and instead took another gulp of the whiskey. “You’re right, son. I have kept things from you. And from Dean.”

Sam stared at him, apparently not prepared for honesty. He took a deep breath and let it out. “It pissed me off when we were kids, but at least I understand that you couldn’t tell a couple of children everything you were doing. I’m not a baby anymore, Dad. I need answers. I need to know why Jess is dead. And mom. I need to know”

“If it’s your fault,” John finished for him.

Sam nodded.

John remembered trying to brief the boys in his motel room back in Colorado. Dean had yelled at Sam that it wasn’t his fault Mary and Jessica died and it sounded like an argument the boys had been through before. Maybe a lot. This had been on Sam’s mind for a long time. Sam was a smart kid: even with only part of the information John had gleaned, the boy could see the pattern. He knew that he was in the middle of all this long before John confirmed it.

“Are you sure you can handle the answer, Sammy?” he asked.

Sam held out his hand for the whiskey flask. “No, I’m not sure,” he answered honestly. “But I _am_ sure I can’t handle the lies.” He lifted the flask up to his lips and drank. “I want to know everything, Dad. Everything you know.” He offered the flask back to John and there was a steely defiance in his look. “I think I’ve earned it.”

Sammy was right. He wasn’t a child any longer and he had earned some answers. “Everything,” John said carefully, “will take a while.”

“Better get started, then,” Sam insisted.

John took the flask from Sam’s hand. Their fingers touched and John pulled away quickly. He lifted the flask and found it almost empty. He finished the whiskey, letting the last of the liquid burn down his throat. “Sammy, what are your plans now? Are you going back to school?”

Sam looked up at the emerging stars above their heads. He sighed. “I want to,” he confessed. “But I don’t know. I need the answers, Dad. I can’t see the future until I know.”

John nodded. “Okay,” he agreed, but even as he spoke he wondered if he could bear to tell Sammy everything he knew. The burden of knowing was too much for John; what would it do to Sam? He looked back at Bobby’s house, where Johnny Cash still sang, checking that they were alone. “What happened to your mother, and to Jessica It wasn’t your fault, Sammy. I don’t want you to blame anyone but that evil son of a bitch you killed. But it’s true that you were his target.”

Sam nodded; he’d already figured out that much for himself. “You lied to me at the hospital. You know about the demon’s plans for me, don’t you?”

“I’ve known for a long time that the demons...” John searched for a word and settled for, “they had an interest in you,” John admitted. “I don’t know if you remember a schoolteacher of yours when you were six. She used to come to our house sometimes”

Sam frowned. “No, I...wait.” He was silent for a moment. “I don’t remember her name, but, I think I know who you mean. You dated her, didn’t you?”

John ignored the question. “She was the first demon I know for sure wanted you specifically. Took me a long time to see her for what she was. Before I sent her back to Hell, she told me you were special. You belonged among your own kind, is how she put it.”

“My own kind. Meaning...demons?” Sam’s voice broke a little on the last word.

“It’s what she meant, but you’re not a demon, son. You’re something else.” And then John told his son everything. The whole, painful truth, from Mary’s deal in 1973 to everything John had pieced together since learning of Jessica’s death. Even though Sam had demanded it, John felt guilty for telling him. Sammy didn’t deserve this burden. John learned the secrets a piece at a time, recovering lost memories and unearthing ancient prophecies over twenty two years of searchingand even though he was prepared for it, learning the final truth almost killed him. An eternity in Hell had seemed preferable to witnessing what he knew must come for his boys. For Sam to get this all at once, well, there just wasn’t enough whiskey in the state for this tale.

When John finished, silence fell between them. Sam stared at John. There wasn’t enough light left for John to see Sam’s face, but he didn’t need to. He knew he’d just destroyed his son’s world.

Without saying a word, Sam jumped down from the car hood and walked away.

*

Dean rolled out from under the wreck of the Impala. He squinted against the noon sun and raised a hand to shield his eyes. “She’s a mess, Dad.”

_Mess_ was an understatement. It broke John’s heart a little to see his faithful car in this state but his assessment had been the same as Bobby’s: the damage was just too great to be worth repairing. He’d told Dean as much over breakfast that morning. John knew Dean would be upset, but he’d expected Dean to accept his judgement in the matter. Instead, Dean had declared him an idiot and stalked outside to re-examine the car for himself. Three hours later, when Dean still hadn’t returned to the house, John went looking for him and found him here, under what was left of the Impala. _She’s a mess_, Dean observed, but already he had laid out tools and begun working on her.

“I see that,” John agreed mildly. He picked up the crushed rear door, examining it as he moved the twisted metal out of the way. The dent in the door was at least as deep as the length of his forearm. It was a miracle the three of them survived the crash.

“Looks like you’ve made a good start,” John observed carefully.

Dean got to his feet, brushing dust off the seat of his pants. The injuries Dean sustained in the crash were still very much in evidence: an ugly scar bisected Dean’s forehead, but it was healing, and the bruises were fading to yellow. It could have been a whole lot worse, John told himself. It almost _had_ been a lot worse.

“Dad, what the hell did you say to Sam last night?”

That was a loaded question. “What did he tell you?” John asked.

Dean’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Nothin’. Which is a first. So what did you say to him?”

“Sammy asked me for the truth about the demon’s interest in him. I told him what I know.” It was an evasive answer, but that was as much as John was prepared to tell Dean, at least until things were more settled. He headed off the inevitable questions by changing the subject. “Listen, Dean, I’m heading to Lincoln to pick up my truck. If you make a list of the things you need for the Impala I’ll buy what I can.”

Dean frowned. “Uh...thanks.” He looked down at the car. “I think...I need everything.”

John smiled. “You want a new car? We could let Bobby salvage...”

“Hell, no!” Dean interrupted, as if John had suggested something unimaginably horrifying.

It was exactly the reaction John expected. “So make that list,” he said. “I’m, uh, I’m going to take Sammy with me to Lincoln, if he’ll come.”

“Why?”

“_Why?_” John repeated, making the word a rebuke. He wasn’t accustomed to Dean questioning his decisions.

But Dean’s look was determined. “Yeah. Why. Dad, you and Sammy can barely be in a room together without you tryin’ to kill each other.”

John nodded. He stepped back, surveying the wreck of the Impala again. Dean had a lot of work ahead of him if he was serious about restoring her.

“Dean, we can’t stay here forever. You know that. Sammy told me last night he’s not sure about going back to Stanford. That leaves the future wide open. Me and Sammy...we need to figure out if we can learn to get along.”

Dean wiped oil off his hands with a cloth. “You know, I’d love for the three of us to be a family again. Sam’s made it clear he doesn’t want that.”

“He might change his mind,” John said, but he wasn’t hopeful. He and Sam had been at odds for too long. But last night he’d ended the secrecy between them. It was time. Maybe, if Sam were wasn’t too mad at him, they could start with a clean slate.

*

John found Sam running. His grey t-shirt clung to his skin, a triangle of sweat visible down his chest. His feet threw up small clouds of dust with every step. He carried a plastic bottle of water in one hand, but John could see that it was empty. Sam had been running for too long, pushing himself hard, and the sun was very hot. But he didn’t seem ready to quit.

Sam saw John watching him and circled around toward Bobby’s house, slowing his pace. He stopped a few feet away from John, breathing hard. Sam doubled over for a moment, and then straightened, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face. He was flushed, dripping with sweat, every curve of muscle visible beneath the t-shirt and the thin pants he wore.

John couldn’t help staring. When Sammy left for college, he’d been a boy. Now he was a man, the boyish body filled out with power and grace.

“Dad? Is something wrong?”

John shook himself out of his reverie. “No, nothing wrong. I’m surprised to see you training.”

“This isn’t training. Just running. Training takes two.” Sam stripped off the t-shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from his face. “Dean’s busy giving CPR to the Impala and you’ve still got some healing to do. So, I’m running.”

“You think I can’t take you right now, Sammy?” John challenged with a smile.

But Sam didn’t rise to the bait. “Later. I need a shower.”

“Fifteen minutes. Then we’re leaving.”

“What? Why?”

Why was Sam incapable of answering an order with a simple _Yes, sir_? John couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice when he answered, “I need to get my rig back and I could use some backup. The warehouse was a demon-den last time I was there.”

“You don’t want Dean backing you up?”

“Dean’s determined to rebuild the Impala. He can use a day or two to concentrate on the work.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Now what’s the real reason?”

The accusation stung. “I don’t like your tone,” John began.

“Deal with it,” Sam snapped.

John had been making an effort, but he wouldn’t stand for that kind of disrespect. “_What_ did you say?” he demanded.

“Deal with it,” Sam repeated, biting off each word. “I’m through blindly following your orders, Dad! You tried to make a deal with _the demon_! How am I supposed to trust you after that?” Sam tossed the t-shirt over his bare shoulder. “When I ask a question, how about you just answer it? Would that kill you?”

Sam had a point, John admitted to himself, but still, he couldn’t let this stand. “You know there isn’t always time,” he pointed out, trying to keep his tone reasonable.

“There’s time _now_! Dad, just be honest with me!”

John bit back the angry response he wanted to give. He saw his own stubbornness in his son and knew he was reacting to that, not to Sam’s argument.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Alright, Sam. I’ll make a deal with you,” he offered. “I’ll answer all your questions on the drive to Lincoln, but you’ve got to straighten up and follow orders. Deal?”

Sam’s expression was defiant, but he shrugged. “Fine. I’ll meet you out front.” He walked past John into the house.

John watched him go. _Well, that could have been worse._

*

When twenty minutes had passed without any sign of Sam, John went to fetch him.

Dean and Sam were sleeping in a beat-up old trailer behind Bobby’s house. The trailer was a write-off: the windows broken, part of the roof missing, but as long as the weather continued fine it was adequate shelter for the boys. John expected to find Sam sulking inside, but Sam wasn’t there. The trailer had no facilities, so if Sam was still in the shower, he would be in the house. John tried there next. He passed Bobby on his way to the bathroom. He could hear the shower running.

“Is Sammy still in there?”

Bobby shrugged. “Sounds that way. Hot water must be all gone by now.”

John was pissed. It was a small thing, really, but he’d told Sam fifteen minutes. This was deliberate defiance and it was typical of Sam. He’d hoped four years of college would have softened some of Sammy’s adolescent rebellion.

John rapped sharply on the bathroom door. “Sammy!”

There was no answer, only the constant sound of the water.

“Lock’s broken,” Bobby volunteered.

John pushed the door open, ready to give Sam six kinds of hell, but the sight that met his eyes quelled his anger instantly. Sam was kneeling on the bathroom floor. He was nude. One of his hands scrabbled at the tiled wall, as if searching for support. With the other hand he clutched his own face. He seemed to be in terrible pain.

“Sammy!” John crossed the room in two strides. He crouched down, reaching for Sam. “Sam, what’s wrong?”

As John touched his bare shoulder Sam reacted, gripping John’s arms with both hands, his eyes wide and frightened. His mouth formed the word, “Dad?” but no sound emerged.

“Sammy, it’s okay. What happened?”

Sam was breathing as hard as when he’d been running. “Vision,” he gasped.

A vision?

_It started out as nightmares, then they started happening when he’s awake._

Holy shit. John remembered Dean telling him about Sam’s visions, but he’d never imagined anything like this. He handed Sam a towel to cover himself.

“Can you tell me what you saw, Sam?” he asked, as gently as he could.

Sam looked down at himself and muttered something under his breath. He met John’s eyes and still looked scared. “D’you mind if I dress first?” he asked.

*

In the end, they did _The Talk_ as a group. Bobby chose a position from which he could watch all of them, leaning against the bookcase. Dean sat perched on Bobby’s desk. John stood near the window, watching Sam pace in front of them all.

“I don’t get it,” Dean said, breaking a long silence. “All your weirdo visions have been connected to the thing that killed Mom. Demon’s dead, ain’t it? Did this one have something to do withit?”

Sam looked at John. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

John didn’t like the look Sam was giving him. “Just tell us what you saw, son.”

Sam faced him, his expression determined. “I dreamed about Jess’s death a year ago, and I didn’t believe it was real. I could have protected her, but I didn’t. I saw the woman who lives in our old house in danger, and _that_ vision happened exactly as I saw it. Dean and I saved her, but the vision was real. I saw Max Miller’s family die, and we managed to change some of that. And that woman in Salvation  if Dean and I hadn’t been there with the Colt, she would have died just like Jess. Just like Mom.”

“And you saved her,” John agreed. “I know.”

“I’m saying please _hear_ this, Dad. No matter how it sounds, you’ve got to take it seriously,” Sam begged.

Before John could answer, Dean jumped down from the desk. “Sammy, what did you see?” he asked urgently.

Sam’s eyes never left John’s. “I saw _you_, Dad. You were sitting at a table in a bar somewhere, alone. The place was empty, just you. You’d been drinking. A lot. There was an empty bottle on the table. I saw you pick up a knife and...and you laid the blade over your wrist.” Sam imitated the gesture, placing the edge of his right hand over his left forearm and cutting downward. If he’d done that with a blade, it would have sliced vertically through the veins: a suicide cut. Sam shook his head, his look pleading. “You were gonna do it, Dad. You were going to kill yourself.”

“Did you see it happen, Sam?” Dean demanded.

Sam shook his head. “No, but I’m sure.”

Everyone was looking at John. Dean, scared and trying to hide it. Sam, on edge and worried. And Bobby, inscrutable as always.

John turned to Dean first, because Dean needed it most. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “Your brother’s psychic ability is real enough, Dean, and I believe he saw what he says, but this makes no sense. I’m not suicidal.” He heard a grunt from Bobby and rounded on him. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“You got something to say, Bobby, say it.”

“Fine,” Bobby grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “John, this past year your behaviour has been like to get you killed. I ain’t sayin’ you’re suicidal but your boys have reason to be worried. Goddammit, John, you begged Sam to shoot you!”

“There was a reason - ”

“Yeah. A good one. All the same, John.”

John started to argue, to point out that yes, he’d taken a lot of risks in the past year, but that wasn’t the same as being reckless, but the look in Bobby’s eyes stopped him before he could speak. John took a breath. “What are you saying, Bobby?”

“Don’t ignore what Sam’s seein’,” Bobby insisted. “Consider it a warning.”

John found his eyes drawn to Sam. He understood Bobby’s point. A warning. Like the warning of Jessica’s death Sam believed he received before she was murdered. To Sam, John said, “Do you know when this vision is going to happen?”

Sam relaxed a little, but he still looked unhappy. “No. It’s always been soon, and it can’t be years away because you looked like you do now. The same age. But I didn’t get the full story, just a flash.”

“I looked like I do now?” John repeated, a sudden thought occurring. “What about this arm?” His arm had been dislocated in the crash. It wasn’t the first time, and that shoulder had an annoying tendency to pop out of joint. The doctor fixed it for him, but some of the muscle had been torn and it would take several weeks for that damage to heal. If John had still been wearing a sling in Sam’s vision, it would give them a timescale.

Sam’s eyes went wide. “Your arm looked fine.”

“Okay. Then it’s weeks away at least. Like Bobby said, a warning. I’m still going to Lincoln to get my truck. You ready?”

Sam glanced at Dean. “I guess so.”

Dean looked like he had something to say; John silenced him with a look before he could ask to come with them. John wanted to take this trip with Sam. Dean nodded curtly, acknowledging the unspoken order.

*

The car Bobby loaned them was old and worn out. When it hit forty the engine started howling like a banshee, and fifty seemed to be its top speed. It was going to be a very long drive to Lincoln.

For the first couple of hours, neither father nor son spoke. Only the radio and the protesting engine broke the silence between them but it didn’t feel uncomfortable.

Not long after noon, Sam turned the radio off. “Is it really dead?” he asked bluntly.

John slowed the car to quiet the engine noise so they could talk. He looked at Sam. “Truth?”

“Truth,” Sam answered firmly.

“Then I don’t know. The legend of the Colt is just that, a legend. That’s why I had to waste a bullet to test it. As far as the demon is concerned, the evidence is convincing. I didn’t see any black smoke and the body we left behind was very dead. But we can’t know for sure. Except...”

“Except what?”

_If it’s still alive, the deal I made stands. It will come for me._ But John couldn’t tell Sam that. Sam was smart: he’d figure it out for himself if he wanted to. “Well,” John hedged, “the yellow-eyed demon was afraid of the Colt because it didn’t know whether or not it would work. But the demon Dean killed, the one it called its son - he’s dead.”

“When I shot the demon in Salvation, the bullet went right through. I didn’t miss, it just...didn’t work.”

“So that’s a maybe,” John agreed. “In the hospital, it looked final to me.” He glanced back at the road then looked at his son’s grim expression. “Something else on your mind?”

“Just...if it’s not dead, what does that mean for this war you told me about?”

_Oh, Sam. I surely wish I knew._ “That’s something else I don’t know. Whether or not the demon is really dead, it’s not over. At best, we’ve postponed the war. Sooner or later some other demon will take over the plan.”

“How long?”

“No, clue, Sammy. A year? Ten years? A hundred?”

“Well, how do we find out?”

“I’m working on that.” John had hoped Bobby would have a bright idea or two but he hadn’t come up with anything John hadn’t already considered.

Sam looked sideways at John. “Is that ‘I’m working on it’ as in ‘I have a plan’ or as in ‘I don’t have a clue but can’t admit it’?”

Such confidence Sam had in his father. John grimaced, but answered honestly. “I don’t have much of a plan, more a wait-and-see strategy. I know some of what was supposed to happen next. I know the signs to watch out for. If something happens, we’ll have a plan. If nothing happens, that tells us something, too.”

Sam twisted in his seat, resting one big hand on the dash. “What signs are you looking for?”

That part of hunting had always fascinated Sammy. When he was young, John had fought a losing battle to get Sammy interested in tracking or bow-hunting, but put him in front of a pile of newspapers or library books and he was happy, even eager to get to work. He was good at it, too.

John smiled as he answered. “Disappearances with certain omens. Demonic possessions. Storms and natural disasters. All my research is in the truck.” John saw a roadside diner and gas station ahead. It was as good a place as any to stop and refuel. “You ready for a cup of caffeine?”

“Sure.”

John turned into the diner’s parking lot and shut down the engine. He turned in his seat to face his son. “Sammy, I need to know if you’re prepared to stick this out. If you’re with us, your brother and I could use your help. If you plan to go back to school”

Sam looked surprised. “Would you let me?”

John remembered the fight they had when Sam left the first time. Bitter words on both sides, frustrations they’d both stored up for much too long. Both of them said things they shouldn’t have said, words impossible to take back. Sam wanted to hurt John, and he’d succeeded. That memory, and the memory of the days that followed, the void Sam left behind him, filled John as he looked at his son.

“If school is where you really want to be, Sam, I won’t try to stop you.”

Sam looked sceptical.

John added, “It’s not worth you staying if you’re not going to be part of the team, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam, okay. Not Sammy.”

John smiled. “I’ll try to remember that, Sammy.”

The grin Sam offered in return gave John real hope. Together, they headed into the diner.

*

The truck was right where John last saw it. Cracks spread across the windshield like a spider’s web, but there were no holes in it. The tyres were slashed, which probably meant the rims were ruined. Other than that, the truck appeared intact.

John no longer had his keys but he kept a spare set inside; John had to climb onto the hood to reach them. He thrust his fist through the ruined windshield and glass fell in a shower over the dash and seat. John cleared glass out of the frame and leaned in to feel under the steering column. After a few moments, he found the key fob and pulled it out.

Behind him, Sam gazed around at the dark buildings. “Meg picked a good place for an ambush.”

John slid off the truck and unlocked the door. “You think so?” He walked around to the back and opened up the trunk.

“Yeah. The buildings appear to offer good cover, but it’s an illusion of safety. You can hide but there’s nowhere to run.”

John watched Sam assessing the area. “Good,” he approved. “What else?” The question was automatic and John half-expected Sam to tell him to go to hell.

But Sam turned around, examining the buildings for a second time. “That water cistern up there could be useful if it’s full. I’d want to take a good look around; there must be places to hide, might be a place we could turn the tables on them. But still, on foot running over fields this flat I’d be visible. So I wouldn’t want to leave anyone standing behind me.” He nodded to the truck’s slashed tyres. “That’s what got you?”

“Part of it,” John admitted. He was impressed that Sam was thinking along the same lines he did. “We need to empty the trunk and then we’ll find a local workshop to tow the truck.”

Sam started to gather up the guns. John had a case for many of his weapons which slid out easily, but beneath it was a larger cache of guns and other equipment. Sam carried the shotguns over to their borrowed car and stowed them in the trunk, then returned to John’s side as he was collecting up scattered knives and placing each into its niche in the case.

Sam picked up John’s Smith &amp; Wesson .45 and slid the clip out. “Will you ever quit?” he asked, the tone interested rather than challenging.

John answered seriously. “I’ve thought about it, but, no. I won’t ever quit.”

“This job will kill you, Dad.”

“Standing by and doing nothing while people die will kill me faster. Sam, I know the score. I know I’ll need to slow down, choose my jobs more carefully. And I know I’ll probably die on a hunt someday. But I won’t stop. I’d rather die that way than” He shrugged, watching Sam’s hands as he checked the clip. “You like the gun?”

Sam pushed the clip back in and aimed the gun at the wall, his finger poised on the trigger. “It’s got a larger grip than Dean’s Colt. Fits better in my hand.” He relaxed his arm and spun the gun on his finger so the barrel lay across his palm. He offered it to John.

John nodded. “It’s yours. If you want it.”

Sam met his eyes and for a moment said nothing. Then he nodded and pushed the gun through his belt. “Thanks. Let’s get the rest of this ammo.”

*

They stayed at the motel John usually used when he visited Caleb and John made arrangements for the truck to be towed from the warehouse and repaired. They bought Chinese food (Sam’s choice) and John skimmed through a local newspaper while they ate. He wasn’t really looking for a hunt: it was just habit. He found an article about a fire in a local bar which he read closely. There was no evidence of anything supernatural, but the article made him think.

The garage called to tell John what he already knew: that the wheels of the truck were damaged and it would take a few days to get replacement parts. John had already given the man Dean’s list of parts he needed for the Impala, so the delay was expected. John agreed to the man’s price and said he’d be back in two days for the truck. He and Sam could head back to Bobby’s place, but perhaps there was time for a side trip. That article had made him uneasy.

John slept poorly, but he wasn’t the only one. Sam tossed and turned, his restlessness keeping John awake. Finally, near dawn, Sam left the room. John woke as Sam slipped quietly out, but he didn’t try to stop him.

A few hours sleep later, John found Sam in the car. He couldn’t help being amused; sleeping in the car was more like Dean than Sam. John opened the car door and grasped Sam’s shoulder to wake him.

Sam came awake crying out. He saw John above him and terror filled his eyes. He scrambled away from John’s touch.

“Whoa! Sammy, it’s okay. It’s me.”

There was some recognition in Sam’s eyes, but he still seemed afraid.

“Sam!” John said sharply.

Sam shook his head, making a visible effort to relax. “Sorry,” he said finally. “Bad dream.”

Bad dream? It should take more than a dream to make Sam react like that. “Are you okay?” John pressed.

“I think so.” Sam was rebuilding himself in front of John’s eyes. He groaned and rubbed his temples. “I need coffee.”

Over coffee and a cheap breakfast, John raised the subject that kept him awake most of the night.

“Sam, I’ve been thinking about your vision.”

Sam choked on his coffee. “My visions?”

“Don’t burn your mouth. You said you saw me about to suicide. I’ve been trying to think what could drive me to that.”

“Oh. Um...yeah.” Sam looked down at his empty plate.

“Meg drew me to Lincoln, into what I knew was a trap. She knew what she was doing. Killing Jim, Caleb”

Sam looked up. “I know. I didn’t know Caleb well, but Pastor Jim...I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I feel the same way. But handing over the Colt wasn’t going to bring them back. I came here to Lincoln because of the _next_ names on Meg’s list.”

Sam frowned. “She told you?”

“No, she didn’t need to. Aside from you and your brother, there aren’t many people who...matter to me. I knew who Meg would go for next. It’s someone I haven’t seen for a long time, but if there’s going to be some payback for what you and I did at the hospital”

“You’re really worried, aren’t you? Is he anyone I know?”

“No. But it’s not far from here. I’m going to drive out there today. You want to come?”

“Sure. I’m driving.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dad, you’re limping. You’ve still got a bullet hole in that leg. I’ll drive.”

*

There were so many memories crowding John as Sam drove, following his directions. The roads were completely familiar, even after his long absence. As they came closer to their destination, John began to worry. Had he been driving, he might even have turned around, so maybe it was a good thing that his injured leg was troubling him enough for Sam to insist on doing the driving. John didn’t know what kind of a reception to expect, but he couldn’t do this by phone.

“There it is,” he said finally, pointing. “Harvelle’s Roadhouse.” The Roadhouse looked the same as the last time he drove down this road. That time he’d been bringing Bill Harvelle’s body back home. It was a relief just to see the building intact and John realised, then, he wasn’t really afraid of facing Ellen. He’d been afraid of _not_ finding her here. Still, there was a distinct possibility he would not be welcome.

He glanced across to Sam. “Follow my lead on this, okay?”

Sam nodded, stopping the car. “Are we expecting trouble?”

“No. I’m not looking for trouble, either. If we’re not welcome, we’ll leave. But be prepared and save your questions for later.”

Sam took his new .45 out of his bag, checked the safety and pushed it through his belt.

“Yes, sir.”

John slammed the car door and looked up at the Roadhouse. It was still early in the day; the place should be open but there wouldn’t be many people around. He headed for the door.

Walking through that door was like stepping into the past. Nothing had changed. Nothing. The same battered pool table. The same bar, same everything. Even Ellen, right there behind the bar, a glass and a polishing cloth in her hands. She looked older, John thought, then realised the years hadn’t been too kind to him, either.

Ellen looked up as John entered. Sam was right behind him, covering John’s back. John was proud of how automatically Sam did that, even though it wasn’t necessary here. He walked across the saloon, slowly in an attempt to conceal his limp. He reached the bar, pulled up a stool and sat down.

“Hello, Ellen.”

“John?” She froze for an instant, then smiled warmly. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. Looks like you’ve been in the wars, Johnny.”

He returned her smile with relief. “This?” he indicated his injured arm. “It’s nothing. You should see the other guy.” God, she looked good! “How have you been?”

She drew him a beer without waiting for him to ask. “How have I been? Ten years, Winchester, and that’s the best you can do?” But she was still smiling when she said it.

John knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. If the bar hadn’t been between them, John would have hugged her; he was that happy to see her again. It took him by surprise.

Ellen looked past him to Sam. “This must be Dean.”

Sam looked very confused. “No. No...uh...I’m Sam. Dean’s my brother.” He looked from Ellen to John, his expression clearly asking _Who the hell is this?_ but John couldn’t answer that yet and Sammy knew it.

Ellen lifted an empty glass. “Beer for you, too?” she offered.

“Yes, thanks,” Sam agreed gratefully. He slid onto a stool beside John.

Ellen placed his beer on the bar in front of Sam and her eyes moved to John again. “Well? I may have the best beer in the county but that’s not why you came.”

John’s smile faded. “No,” he answered seriously. “You heard about Caleb?”

Ellen’s expression changed instantly. “I heard,” she answered grimly. “Jim Murphy, too. You know how the grapevine - ”

About then a blonde whirlwind stormed into the bar, brandishing a white sheet of paper. “Mom, Ash found - ” She stopped dead, staring at the three of them.

Little Joanna. It had to be. John remembered a plump ten-year-old with torn skirts and ribbons in her hair, who begged him for sweets and stories while she sat in her daddy’s lap. That cute little girl was gone. John was speechless as she was. Would she even remember him?

“Jo, honey.” There was a hint of a warning in Ellen’s voice. “This is John and Sam Winchester.”

She stared at John, all wide eyes. “Uncle John? I didn’t recognise you.”

“Uncle?” Sam repeated, in a tone that suggested he was going to enjoy telling this story later.

“Not now, Sammy. Ellen, can we talk in private?”

Ellen nodded. “Sure. Jo, look after the bar for me, sweetheart.”

Jo frowned, but moved behind the bar, folding the paper she carried and stuffing it into a pocket of her jeans.

Ellen led John to a table on the other side of the room. As he sat down, careful to face the door, he heard Jo say to Sam, “Are you a hunter, too?” He resisted an impulse to look their way. It was lucky he’d come with Sam, not Dean. Dean would have that girl on her back inside of twenty minutesand would likely be on the wrong end of Ellen’s shotgun thirty seconds later.

Ellen didn’t look at their kids. “Alright, John. What’s going down?”

John told the shortest version of the story he could think of; fortunately Ellen already knew the background. He told her about the demon resurfacing after twenty two years. Jessica dying as Mary died. The Colt. Meg and her declaration of war. The psychic children, including Sam, and the coming war. John spoke briefly of his own capture and possession, giving no details, and described the car crash and the demon’s death. Finally he told her of his fear for the future; that more of his friends might die in retribution, that some other demon would take over the war and Sam would never be safe.

“You and your boys are welcome here,” Ellen said finally. “If you need a place to go to ground.”

“I can’t put you at risk,” John protested.

“You wouldn’t be. Not any more than every other hunter who drops by. We’ve got some protection around the place and the Roadhouse is usually full of hunters. We can all defend ourselves if need be. I mean it, John. You and yours are family.”

“I’ll remember that.” John reached across the table for her hand and squeezed it gently, gratefully. “Ellen, about Bill...”

She shook her head, and withdrew her hand from his touch. “It’s past and gone, John. Can’t be changed. No need to say anything about it.”

“Okay.” He was grateful for that, too. He owed Ellen much more than an apology but some debts could not be repaid.

She looked past him then. “Do I need to rescue my daughter from your boy?”

“I think she’s safe enough with Sammy.” John turned to look at them. Sam and Jo had their heads close together over the bar. It looked very intimate. “I wouldn’t mind being wrong, though,” he admitted. “Sam’s girlfriend died about a year ago. I hoped he’d be able to move on by now. Could do worse than a Harvelle.”

Perhaps Sam heard part of what John said, because he glanced their way. When he saw John looking at him he slid down from his bar stool and walked over. John observed Jo watching them and trying to seem like she wasn’t, and he saw the sheet of paper in Sam’s hand.

Sam offered it to John. “Dad, what do you make of this?”

John took the paper and unfolded it to reveal a story from a newspaper’s website. “Are you looking for a new hunt, Sammy?” he asked without reading it.

Sam shrugged. “I wasn’t. Jo found this.”

John read through the story quickly, Missing teenage boy  some odd behaviour before he went missing  parents said he was sulky, depressed  friends insist it wasn’t depression. The rest was the kind of emotional padding reporters love to indulge in: not worth reading. John handed it back. “The article isn’t very revealing,” he said, speaking loudly enough for Jo to hear. “Could be something. Could be just a teenager taking off for the big city. Do you want to call your brother?”

“Jo said she’s working on getting the police file,” Sam answered.

Ellen interrupted. “She means she talked Ash into hacking the police network. He’s good. He’ll get the files.”

Sam continued, “but she’s got some more information that make it sound like our kind of gig.”

John nodded, his mind racing. A new hunt wasn’t what he had in mind when they came here, but maybe it was what Sam needed. “It’s your call, Sam. If you want to check it out, we can, but I won’t be much good to you on a hunt until this arm heals.” Truthfully, the injury wouldn’t hold John back, much. He said it because he wanted Sam to understand his meaning: that is wasn’t just about this one hunt. Sam hadn’t quite answered his question the day before.

Sam hesitated. “I’ll call Dean.”

It lifted a heavy weight from John’s heart.

Jo ran out from behind the bar as Sam headed for the door and reached into his pocket for his phone.

“Hey! If you’re going out there, I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not!” Ellen stood abruptly.

Jo whirled to confront her mother, but Sam stepped in first. “No, Jo,” he said firmly.

His certainty surprised John. John would have said no himself, because he was sure Ellen wouldn’t stand for her daughter hunting with the Winchesters after what happened to Bill. He didn’t expect Sammy to see it his way, though.

Jo bristled. “What? Girls can’t hunt?”

Sam turned to face her, shaking his head. “I’ve got nothing against women hunting, Jo. We just met today. You don’t know what kind of hunter I am, how I work, any of the things that can trip you up in a crunch. And I don’t know you. If this were a simple salt-and-burn, you’d be welcome to come along, but we don’t know yet what it is. So no. Not this time.”

Jo stared at him. She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it again. Grinned. “Some other time, then?”

Sam grinned back at her without answering and headed for the door.

*

**Two Days Later **

John gazed down at the photographs Jo laid in front of him. “Let me guess. You’re thinking spontaneous human combustion.”

Jo nodded with an eagerness that reminded him of Dean a few years ago. “Not many things can do that.”

“More than you’d think,” John answered. For a moment his memory threw out the image of Mary on the ceiling and he closed his eyes briefly before continuing. “Demons, salamanders, fire wraiths. I’ve heard of human pyrokinetics but I’ve never seen proof of it. Ghosts sometimes create fire but I’ve not seen one that can burn with enough intensity to burn up a whole body. There are stories from all over the world of spirits that live in and manipulate fire.”

Jo looked taken aback. “Oh. Well, which of those do you think it is?”

“You’re going too fast,” John chided. “To begin with you’re missing some information. Look here” John turned the photograph around so they could both see it clearly and tapped the image with his fingers. “These scorch marks aren’t big enough to account for a whole human body and I don’t see any sign of remains. If it’s a genuine case of spontaneous combustion...” He stopped talking as a thought occurred to him and looked up at Jo. “There wouldn’t happen to be a churchyard near this boy’s home, would there?”

“About half a mile away,” Jo confirmed. She smiled, catching his changed mood. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

“I have a theory. We’ll know more when we get there.”

“I want to go,” Jo said determinedly. She’d been nagging him for the past two days.

John started to gather up rest of the pictures. “Think you can handle this hunt alone?” he asked her bluntly.

“Maybe,” she answered defiantly. “I can fight. I can shoot. I know the job. I’ve hunted before  ”

“Alone?”

“No. With...someone else.”

_Boyfriend_, John translated, but said nothing more about that. “Jo, only you can decide if you’re ready. If you want to take on this hunt, it’s your mother you have to convince, not me. But you ain’t hunting with my boys. I won’t let you endanger them.”

“What makes you so sure I would?” she flared.

“I’m not. But I won’t take the risk.” He rose from the table and saw Ellen watching them. He knew Ellen would never let Jo go with them, and he knew why. Better let Jo believe it was his decision.

It was time they were leaving.

*

The boys were out back: Sam dragged Dean out there almost the instant Dean arrived with John’s newly-rebuilt truck.

Dean was leaning against the wall; Sam was sitting on an overturned beer barrel. One look at Sam’s face told John something was wrong.

Dean was shaking his head. “Dude, that’s - ”

“Insane,” Sam supplied. “I know.” He spread his hands. “I can’t explain it, but it’s what I saw.”

Dean walked a few paces, then turned back. “I see why you didn’t want to tell Dad. Uh...are you sure it was him?”

Sam made a face. “Yeah.”

“Well, maybe one of you was possessed. Or a shape shifter.”

Sam sighed. “I thought of that. But even if that’s true, it would still mean that _one_ of us was...”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupted as if he didn’t want to hear the rest of Sam’s sentence. He paced back to the wall. “You know, Sam, I think your psychic radar is fried.”

“I hope so.”

“I just don’t believe it, dude. There’s no way.”

“I had to tell you, Dean.”

John looked from one of his sons to the other. He moved back in the doorway so they wouldn’t see him.

Dean looked at Sam, his face serious. “You believe this, don’t you? You wouldn’t be so scared if you thought it was impossible.”

Sam was silent. He looked so uncomfortable John thought about showing himself. He had no idea what Sam had seen in this latest vision but it sounded bad. Bad enough that Sam wouldn’t trust his father with it?

“Not all your visions come true, Sammy,” Dean pointed out.

“Name one that didn’t.”

“I’ll name two. You saw me get my head blown off in Saginaw and you saw that woman die in Salvation. Both times, it didn’t happen because you were there. You stopped it. You’ll stop this one, too.”

Dean turned toward the Roadhouse. He froze for an instant when he saw John in the doorway.

John moved quickly back into the shadows before Sam could see him. He heard Dean slap Sam on his back. “Come on, Sammy. Time we hit the road.”

*

John dumped his bag at the foot of the motel bed. The room was decorated in a retro-seventies style, all migraine-inducing orange and pink in bold patterns. John hung a protective mandala over the door and pulled Jo’s research out of his bag. He began to lay the information out on the plastic table. The most significant details he pinned to the wall: just as a reminder. He already had the data memorised. Then he sat down and started cleaning his guns while he waited for his boys.

Almost an hour later, Dean showed up with pizza and a six-pack. He looked around the room, his expression horrified. “Yeuch! And I thought our room was bad.” He offered the pizza box to John.

“Makes you wish you were colour blind, doesn’t it?” John smiled, taking the box. “Where’s Sammy?”

“He went to the local newspaper office to see if there are any other disappearances. I said I’d meet him at the bar when we’re done. Seems like the best place to start the recon.”

John took a slice of pizza. It was still warm. “Sit down, Dean,” he ordered.

Dean obeyed. “Did I do wrong?” he asked, frowning.

“No. No, recon is a good idea, Dean. It’s just I have an idea what we’re facing. I don’t know that Sam will be asking the right questions.”

“What do you think we’re facing?” Dean stuffed his mouth full of pizza and cracked open a beer.

“Later. Dean, I need to know about Sam’s vision.”

Dean stiffened. “You were listening,” he accused.

John nodded, seeing no reason to deny it. “I heard enough to know Sam was freaked, but not everything. So tell me.”

Dean gazed at his father for a long time, chewing on his pizza. John gave him the time. He didn’t always understand Sammy, but he understood Dean. Something about this vision had both boys freaked out. Finally, Dean swallowed, chased it with a gulp of beer, and shook his head firmly. “No.”

It was the last thing John expected to hear. Dean _never_ refused his orders.

“Dean,” he warned.

“I said _no_.”

“Dean, I can’t lead this hunt if I don’t have all the - ”

“Don’t give me that soldier crap!” Dean snapped, and John wondered when the hell Dean started channelling his brother. Dean slammed the beer bottle down on the table between them. “We ain’t in the army, Dad. A CO doesn’t abandon his unit just when the war is starting. You taught me that, damn it.”

And John had abandoned Dean for a whole year. The unspoken accusation stung because it was true.

“We’ve been over this, Dean,” John protested.

“I’ve got a right to be pissed, okay! And I’ll tell you somethin’ else. This past year, Sam and me made a damn good team. We’re good at this and we can do it without you.”

“I know you can, and I’m proud” John began, but he’d misunderstood Dean’s point.

Dean shook his head. “No, Dad. I’ve been thinking about this. About Sam’s vision, ever since he told me. I think...no, I _know_, that if Sam had the same vision, exactly the same but about me, and he told _you_ about itDad, you wouldn’t tell me. Not about this. So I won’t tell you. Not because I promised Sam, but because it’s what you’d do.”

“There’s a difference, Dean,” John argued.

Dean nodded, meeting John’s eyes. “Dad, do you trust me?”

“You’re not making it easy, son.”

“Dad.”

“Yes, Dean. I trust you.”

“Then _trust_ me. I swear, Sam’s vision had nothing to do with this hunt. But if I tell you what he saw, it will change things. Things that shouldn’t be changed.”

It was frustrating, but John had to trust Dean’s judgement. He had to accept that perhaps, this time, Dean knew best.

Dean’s stubbornness was a real kick in the head. Dean wasn’t his good soldier any longer. By taking off on his own, John had forced Dean to be independent, and he had learned the lesson well. He was demanding equality, and the John had to admit to himself that Dean deserved it.

John took a second slice of pizza. “Alright, son. You keep Sam’s secret. But once we’re out there, I expect you to follow orders. Both of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered, and his tone was obedient once more. But there was something in his eyes, some shadow of defiance. Of fear.

_What the hell had Sam seen?_

*

John’s hands were dry with dust from the pages of old books and a dull ache had settled in behind his eyes, but finally he had what he needed.

He wanted to be sure of what they were hunting and what he needed was information neither Jo nor Ash had been able to track down online. Most of the local records were still only on paper, even in this computer age. So he and Sammy were doing the job the old fashioned way. A fake FBI badge got John into the county records office while Sammy went through microfiched archives of local newspapers at the library.

John started his research with the small, Catholic church which was near the home of the boy who died. He found that every priest the Church assigned to this town had died there. This would not have been strange in itself except every one of them died relatively young: the youngest was thirty five when he suffered a fatal heart attack; no priest in that church had lived to see fifty, as far as John could find, since it was built.

He Xeroxed the most important paperwork, then moved on to look at deaths among local young people. He knew what he would find. County statistics revealed a higher than normal rate of deaths among people under thirty. The rate wasn’t high enough to be alarming or suspicious to the inexperienced eye. The deaths were not unexplained, but deaths from natural causes, mostly flu and pneumonia, teenagers succumbing to tragic illnesses where you’d expect them to fight through to recovery. John found that trend going all the way back to the founding of the town. It was surprising no other hunter had picked this up.

He began to put the papers back into their dusty file boxes when he heard voices from the front office. He put his head around the door and saw the receptionist arguing with Sam.

“It’s okay,” John called to the receptionist. “He’s with me.”

Sam moved past her quickly. John stood back to let him enter and closed the door. “What did you find?”

Sam shrugged. “Nothing. No unexplained deaths except the one Jo found. No mysterious fires. Not in the last ten years.”

“Then you’ve got to go back further.”

“Maybe if you’d tell me what you’re thinking” Sam suggested.

It was typical of Sam. He couldn’t just trust John to be right. He always needed to know more details, more reasons...just more. Just once, he would love Sam to trust him enough to just do the job without asking questions.

“Fine.” John pulled out a chair irritably and laid out his research. Now he knew what they were facing, every instinct told John to get his boys  especially Sammy  out of here. But it was too late. If he ordered them to leave now...well, Dean might obey him but Sam would insist on staying. Dean would stay if Sam did.

Sam looked up from the statistics John had tabulated, frowning. “Not many things haunt churches, and those teenage deaths fit, too. You think it’s a succubus.”

“Yes.”

“So why am I looking for fires? How does that connect?”

John looked at him. “I thought you’d read my journal.”

Sam smiled crookedly. “I might have skipped a few pages. You don’t exactly write in full sentences, Dad.”

John chuckled. It was true enough. The notes in his journal were mostly for his own benefit; he’d never written with the intention of being understood by anyone else. Indeed, parts of it were deliberately obscure. “That’s fair,” he admitted. “It’s about reproduction.”

“A succubus is a demon,” Sam objected. “They don’t reproduce.”

“There are different kinds of succubus. The most common is a demon and we’d get rid of it with an exorcism. But that’s not what we’re facing here. The church connection should have told you that.” John pulled out the page with the death rates tabulated. “Look at these. It’s just toosubtle to be a demon’s work.”

He waited for Sam to comment or ask questions, but Sam said nothing.

John went on, “There’s a creature from Southern Europe that feeds on sex, or sexual energy, just like a demonic succubus. It can infect others, a little like a werewolf bite, but this is more of a curse. The succubus creates others like herself, usually a male partner. The boy’s death was a failed attempt to turn him. If I’m right, there will be other deaths like that one, but I don’t know how long ago. It will be a cycle.”

Sam was still frowning, but he nodded. “Okay. So I’m looking for a teenage boy who died in a fire.”

“Fire, yes. But don’t make any more assumptions. It could be male or female, and it will probably be someone under thirty but might not be a teenager.” He met Sam’s eyes. “Sammy, I want to be certain before we go after this thing.”

“Got it.” He glanced toward the door. “I’ll keep looking.” Sam headed for the door. As he reached it he looked back over his shoulder. “Dad, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“About this hunt? No, Sam, I’ve told you everything I know.” It wasn’t entirely true, but if Sam remembered nothing, it was better left that way.

An hour later, John was waiting outside the library for Sam. While he waited, he called Dean.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Where are you?”

“In the diner near our motel. They do the _best_ triple-cheese-chilli”

John couldn’t help smiling. “Dean. What did you find?” In the brief silence that followed, John could almost see Dean straighten up and set his food aside, concentrating on the phone call.

When Dean spoke again, it was in a low, careful voice which told John he didn’t want to be overheard. “I talked to the boy’s parents. They make him sound like a freaking saint. Straight A student, went to church every Sunday, kept his room tidy and bought his mom flowers every month. It’s so Stepford I wanna be sick.”

“You think they’re lying?”

“Nah, they let me see the kid’s room. He even kept a missal in his bedside drawer.”

John nodded; Dean confirmed his suspicions. “So he’s associated with the church. That fits. Anything else I need to know?”

“There was one thing. His mom said he was depressed. Something about feeling guilty, but she didn’t know why. I thought I’d go talk with the priest: if Saint-Choirboy-Perfect here was on a guilt-trip you just know he talked about it in confession.”

“A priest won’t break the seal.”

“No, but he might tell me something. I can try.”

“Alright, but wait for Sam.” John explained the evidence he had found in the county records. As he laid it out for Dean, he saw Sam emerge from the library, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Here’s your brother now. I’ll call you back, Dean.”

“Yes, sir.”

John pocketed his phone and headed toward Sam.

“1947,” Sam said, offering him a Xerox of an old news-sheet. “Dad, if you’re right, this cycle is a long one. There were three men who died in fires sixty years ago. I couldn’t find anything more recent.”

John skimmed the article quickly. A fire destroyed a barn, a twenty three year old man presumed dead, no body found. “Are they all like this?”

Sam nodded. “All three fires were intense enough to destroy the building. It’s almost like...” he hesitated, then finished, “like mom’s death.”

“Supernatural fires always have some common elements, Sammy,” John answered gently. He knew it wasn’t only Mary’s murder Sam was thinking about. He rested an understanding hand on his son’s shoulder briefly. Sam met his eyes with gratitude.

*

As darkness fell, John approached the small, grey-stone church with something close to fear in his heart. He was a hunter, and there was something supernatural preying on innocents in this town. He would have come here to stop it, regardless. But if he’d been certain what he was hunting before they came, he might not have brought his sons along.

So John came to the churchyard alone. These things were not really so hard to kill. He thought perhaps he’d be able to take care of it without riskinganyone else. He didn’t want his boys facing a succubus, especially not Sammy. There were too many frightening possibilities.

The evening Mass was over and the church stood silent and empty. Dean and Sam were going to talk to the local priest, who lived a short distance from his church. John opened the wrought iron gate of the churchyard and walked in. Sam was right when he said not many things haunt churches. Hallowed ground was proof against most demons and spirits. The succubus was an exception, often seen in churchyards and cemeteries. Folklore held that if a woman within a churchyard seemed in need of help, a man should speak to her before approaching, as a succubus could not speak back.

Like most folklore, it was partially true.

The many stones in the churchyard were old and lichen-covered. The churchyard was well-tended and the grass had recently been mowed, but around the graves the grass was longer, clinging to the crooked stones. There was no sign of any disturbed grave, or even any new graves. John walked around to the side of the church, idly reading the names on the headstones as he checked his weapons. He wore a protective amulet. He carried a shotgun concealed under his coat, loaded with the usual rock salt.

There was a small stone bench at the side of the church, with a rain barrel and some gardeners’ tools beside it. John sat down, intending to keep watch. It was quiet in the churchyard and peaceful. For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. Peace was a rare luxury in his life, and rarer still in the past year.

When he first saw her, John almost failed to realise she was what he was waiting for. She looked so ordinary: the figure of a woman moving silently between the headstones. She carried flowers in her hands as if she were tending a grave. Her clothing seemed modern, the colours dull in the darkness. Only her hair stood out: long and pale, a cascade of loose curls down her back. She drifted across the grass and did not look John’s way.

She wasn’t what John was waiting for, he realised. The strange figure of a woman was just a fetch: a psychic projection. She was the worm on the succubus’ hook. John might need backup after all.

John called his son’s cell phone. “Dean, where are you?” He could hear the noise of a crowd and music in the background.

“Following up a lead from Father O’Connell.”

“Dean, I’m in the churchyard. I need you and Sammy here. Come armed with iron. Holy water, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered at once and ended the call.

That was John’s second mistake. He’d been talking to Dean: Dean who was his good soldier and always obeyed orders. Dean didn’t ask questions, so John didn’t answer them. Sam would have asked.

Watching the spirit-woman move, John could see the small signs that gave away her true nature. Her hair moved in a breeze he could not feel on his own skin. She walked with slow grace, never stumbling on the uneven ground. He kept one hand on his gun.

“I see you’ve found our local ghost,” a woman’s melodious voice said from his left side.

John turned, already suspecting what he would see. The woman standing there was truly beautiful. Moonlight played on her long, blonde hair. It was no coincidence she resembled Mary: enough to remind him strongly of his wife, but not quite enough for the resemblance to be disturbing. John caught a glimpse of silver in the depths of her eyes that confirmed what she was. There was a scent in the air like fresh clover and roses.

With only a moment to decide what to do, John chose to play for time. His boys weren’t far away.

“That’s no ghost,” he said.

She smiled gently and sat beside him, close enough for him to feel the unnatural warmth of her body. She did not speak.

Her silence would have told him all he needed, had John not already been certain. A succubus could not speak on hallowed ground. She could put the words in his head - a telepathy so subtle he had believed he heard her voice - but she couldn’t speak aloud, so couldn’t communicate in words while he looked at her.

John’s hand tightened on the gun, but he didn’t draw it yet.

John’s third mistake was one any hunter would have made: he assumed she would follow her normal pattern of behaviour. Spirits and demons almost always did; once a pattern was identified you could rely on them sticking to it.

Everything he and Sam found that day, everything Jo found before them, indicated that this succubus preyed on the young. All of her fatal attacks were on young men: his sons’ age or younger. John had no reason to expect he would be in danger from her. Oh, she might try to seduce him: she almost certainly would. It was her nature. But a single attempt to feed on him would not hurt him. Or so John believed.

He’d hoped not to face her until his sons were there to back him up, but now he had no choice.

She reached toward him and John let go of the gun, letting the iron chain he wore around his wrist fall out from the sleeve. She’d been about to touch his hand; she withdrew with a hiss. John backed away from her, just enough to give him space to aim, and drew the gun. The clover-and-roses scent around her became thick and cloying.

“That’s far enough,” John said.

She gazed at him with wide-eyed innocent surprise. _I mean you no harm._ She made no pretence at speech this time; it was a gentle mind-touch, the very gentleness of it calculated to persuade.

“I can’t say the same.” John started to squeeze down on the trigger.

She didn’t move. She vanished.

John whirled, anticipating an attack, but she was faster. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her face: a face no longer lovely but white and gaunt, her hair flying, her eyes silver. It was an instant, and then her outstretched hands struck him in the chest.

The impact drove him backward -

- into the succubus’ arms which closed about his body. John tried to aim the gun but her hand grasped his and it was as if her flesh was made of knives. Pain lanced through -

- John’s mouth as her lips met his. He was on his back in the damp grass, her weight above him, crushing the breath out of him. He had no idea where his gun was. He was choking on the scent of -

- deafening gunfire and suddenly the weight above him was gone.

John saw the faces of his sons through blurred vision.

“Dad! You okay?” Dean asked urgently.

“Dad, talk to me!” Sammy insisted.

He drew in a breath of clear air and found himself coughing. He struggled into a sitting position. He fought to take a breath. Then another as the spasms in his lungs calmed. He felt Dean’s hands on his back but shrugged off the help. John got shakily to his feet and looked down to see what was left of the succubus on the grass beside him. It was a wizened husk in a human shape, long dead.

He looked at his boys. “Good timing,” he said weakly.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean retorted. “How could you let her get the jump on you like that?”

“She was fast,” John answered, though it wasn’t much of an excuse. He looked for Sammy. Sam was hanging back, his face pale, still aiming his gun at the succubus. John took another breath and straightened up, his strength returning. “We need to salt and burn that.” He nodded toward the body.

“Yes, sir.” Dean shrugged the bag off his shoulder and crouched down to rummage in it for the salt.

Dizziness washed over John and everything went dark suddenly. Immediately, Sam was there, offering a hand to steady his father. John grabbed for the church wall, shrugging off Sam’s attempt to help him as he had Dean’s.

But instead of backing off, Sam moved closer. “Dad, you’re hurt,” he protested.

“I’m okay,” John insisted, blinking to focus his vision. “Where’s my gun?”

“Here.” Sam walked a few steps and retrieved the shotgun from behind a headstone. He held it out to John.

John reached out a hand to take the gun. His fingertips brushed Sam’s hand and the instant he touched skin John felt a tremendous tightening in his body. He couldn’t entirely hide his reaction. John tightened his grip on the shotgun and half-turned away from Sam. It wasn’t Sam he reacted to: it would have been the same no matter who touched him in that moment.

“Dad?” Sam asked, concerned.

John looked at him. “I’m fine, son,” he lied. “Help your brother.”

Sam stared at him a moment longer, then obeyed.

The rest was routine. They watched while the flames licked around the pale body. The boys did their job, calm and efficient.

Burning the succubus ended her life, but it wasn’t over. John felt heat from more than the flames, and he knew he had a new problem to deal with.

Supernatural infections don’t all follow the same rules. Some have no cure at all. Others end when the creature that created them dies, but not all of them work that way. Some are blood-borne and persist, like a virus. Others are more subtle.

The succubus had infected John with her attack and he could feel it already working in him. She was dead, but her death hadn’t ended it. It wasn’t that kind of infection. She had known he came to kill her and struck first, trying to make him what she was: a less-than-human thing, a parasite forced to feed off the lives of innocents.

John had to act quickly, or she would succeed.

The flames dancing around her body seemed to flicker with many colours: reds and blues and greens. Impossible. John felt the heat of the flames as if he were much too close. Too hot for such a small fire. He wiped sweat from his brow.

Sam was there, a challenge in his eyes. “Dad, did she...?” he began. He stared into John’s eyes and John saw his expression fill with fear. “Crap. Dad, why didn’t you say something?”

Dean stood on the other side of the fire; his head jerked up at Sam’s words. “What?”

“Dean, Dad’s infected.”

“How?” Dean moved to John’s side. “Dad, is he right?” He demanded.

It would be a waste of time to deny it, and John didn’t consider trying. He nodded slowly. “I think so. It’s okay, son. We can fix it if we act quickly.”

“There’s a cure?” Dean demanded.

“It’s in my journal. Come on, let’s go.”

*

Dean read down the list in John’s journal. He looked up, a familiar frown creasing his brow. “Dad, this stuff isn’t exactly in our regular supplies. I don’t even know where”

John was seated on the bed in his motel room. He’d stripped off his coat and shirt, leaving only the t-shirt. Already he was feeling the effects of the succubus’ infection. His skin was much too sensitive: the clothing he wore hurt his skin. His vision was changing: colours were brighter, but blurred, odd things stood out sharply. The night air was cool on his skin, but John knew his core body temperature was rising. It would continue to rise, the energy of the curse growing in him until he had no choice but to...

John interrupted Dean quickly. “Go to Bobby. He’ll have most of what you need on hand, and he can tell you where to go for the rest.”

“Bobby’s hours away, Dad. There ain’t time.”

“There’s time. The cure works if taken within thirty hours of infection. So take my truck and drive fast.”

Dean shook his head. “Dad, you should come with.”

“No!” John shouted.

Both his sons turned as one to stare at him; the room fell silent.

John took a deep breath. It burned his lungs the way air does on a very cold day. John knew how bad this was going to get for him. He’d seen it happen before. John didn’t dare to accompany his sons. He couldn’t spend hours trapped in a car with them, on the road, with this infection working through him. No, he couldn’t risk that. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

After a moment, Sam stepped forward. “You don’t want to say it, Dad? Fine. _I_ will. We’ve got thirty hours to find what we need to lift this curse, but that’s not the full story, is it? The curse, or infection, whatever, is working _now_. You want me and Dean to leave so we’re not in danger. From you.”

Sam had nailed it, and a little too closely for John’s comfort. “A few years ago,” John said carefully, “I saw someone infected by one of these things.”

Sam looked at Dean, his expression determined. “You go. I’m staying with Dad.”

“No, Sam,” John interjected.

Dean’s eyes went wide. He pulled Sam to one side, speaking quietly, but not so quietly John couldn’t hear. “Sammy, this is....”

“Dean,” Sam said. Just that, just the name.

Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You could be walking right into - ”

“Don’t you see? That’s why I have to stay.”

Dean grasped Sam’s arm, looking into his face. He said nothing more but he was certainly communicating.

“Dean, there’s no time. You’ve got to go, or Dad could die!”

Dean looked at John. John was not happy with the idea of Sam staying, but better Sam than Dean. If the worst happened, if John becamesomething that needed hunting, Sam might do what had to be done. Dean never would. So John gave Dean a nod, silently telling him to go alone.

Dean met John’s eyes and held his gaze. The look was a warning of some kind; John nodded an acknowledgement, aware that Dean understood something of what was going to happen to him.

Dean closed the journal with a snap and pocketed it. “Okay. I’ll hit the road.”

John got to his feet. “There’s something in the truck I’ll need first.”

The truck stood in the motel parking lot. John checked no one was around before opening the trunk and lifting the panel that revealed his arsenal. The shelf of knives lifted out and beneath that was a storage space. John reached in for the canvas gym bag at the bottom of that space. He replaced the knives and closed the trunk.

He handed his keys to Dean. “Drive fast, and keep an eye out for cops. You don’t want to be pulled over.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to Sam before his hand closed over John’s keys. Then he looked at John, frowning. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Again, John felt there was a message in Dean’s words he wasn’t quite getting.

Dean climbed into the truck and fired up the engine. Sam moved up to John’s side as Dean accelerated out of the parking lot.

“You _do_ know I’m gonna tie you up, right?” Sam asked, the question almost casual.

John handed him the gym bag. “What do you think this is for?”

*

The last time John let someone tie him to a bed, it was a lot more fun.

Sam knew what he was doing. He took the handcuffs from John’s bag  two sets of cuffs  and John allowed Sam to cuff his hands to the bed. Sam spaced John’s hands widely apart, making it much harder for John to free himself. Next, Sam took a rope from the bag and tied his legs. John couldn’t see the knots he used, but the rope felt firmly in place, not overly tight, but with very little slack.

When Sam was done, he carried the room’s only chair closer to the bed. He sat down and leaned over John who was watching him apprehensively. Sam laid one hand briefly on John’s cheek. “Shit, Dad. You’re burning up.”

“I don’t feel it yet, but that’s expected. All part of the infection.”

Sam nodded grimly. “I remember.”

John thought his heart literally missed a beat.

Sam sat down on the chair, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. “Dad, why didn’t you fight me on this? About me staying, I mean.”

John got his whirling thoughts under control long enough to focus on the question. He couldn’t tell Sammy the truth about why he was willing for him to stay. But he had to come up with something. Sammy looked so serious.

John forced an uncomfortable smile onto his face. “Are you about to ask me what I’ve done with your father?”

Sam actually smiled. “If I thought that, we’d be halfway through the exorcism by now.”

That was reassuring. “This infection is a kind of possession. It’s just not the kind you can fix with an exorcism. Sammy, do you really remember?” John wasn’t at all certain he wanted to hear Sam’s answer. But not asking would be the coward’s way. He needed to know, and face the consequences.

Sam met his eyes. “I remember...most of it.”

John swallowed. _You lied to me, Sammy. For how long?_ “Does Dean know?”

“Not unless _you_ told him,” Sam snapped, anger in his voice. “I couldn’t do that to my brother! Answer my question, Dad. You argue with me on principle, you always have. So why did you just cave when I said I wanted to stay?”

“There wasn’t time for a fight. I wanted Dean out of here. Sam, I don’t want you to witness this, but,” John shook the chain at his wrist, “I couldn’t do this to myself.”

*

For the first couple of hours, everything seemed fine.

John wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he’d endured far worse than this. With the position in which he lay, the stretched muscles in his arms began to ache. After the first hour, he could feel the heat in his body that Sam already pointed out. He felt warm, like a Florida summer, but not hot. Sam said his skin was so hot he’d probably break a thermometer.

John’s real discomfort, though, was in his pants. His cock was a hard rod, aching and painful. That was the nature of this infection: a succubus needs sex like a man needs to breathe, and John was becoming like her. A thing of need. He was just going to have to deal with it. Or, rather, not deal with it. There was no chance of relief.

He hoped Dean was driving at the truck’s limit.

He tried not to watch Sam watching him.

John hunted a churchyard succubus when Sam was twelve years old. Knowing that her prey of choice was teenage boys, John encouraged Dean to stay home. He’d been helped in that by the fact that Dean scored a part-time job in a local workshop and wanted to save up for a car of his own. John thought that Sammy was young enough to be safe.

He’d been half right. The succubus didn’t try to feed on Sammy.

She infected him.

Even that shouldn’t have been a disaster. John knew how to cleanse the infection, but although he acted quickly it wasn’t quickly enough. Perhaps it was Sammy’s youth that made the infection take hold so much faster than it should have. Before he could cure Sammy of the succubus curse, John had been forced to...

He tried to be gentle, to make it okay, but...but Sam was twelve.

It was a horrible way for a boy to have his first sexual experience.

When it was all over, when Sammy was cured and the bitch who infected him was dead, John tried to sit down with his son and talk about it. He didn’t expect forgiveness, but he wanted Sammy to understand that there was a reason for what John did to him. But Sammy behaved as if he had no memory of that night. He seemed okay, and John, hugely relieved, left it alone.

Who knew Sammy was that good an actor at twelve years old? Or did the memory come back to him later? Yes, that was possible. That was worse.

And it explained a great deal.

Something freezing and wet touched his face and John flinched away. His eyes flew open.

“Sammy?”

“Dad, thank god.” Sam’s face swam into focus above him. “Can you hear me?”

John tried to nod, and his head swam. “I can hear you,” he answered.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Dad,” Sam burst out angrily. “Is this some stupid guilt trip over what you did to me when I was a kid, or just your regular need-to-know bullshit?”

John recognised the anger in Sammy’s voice, but the words...Sam was just going too fast for him. John was too far gone; he couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t think clearly.

He tried to speak but no sound came. He licked his dry lips and tried again. “Sammy...can I...water?”

“Sure.” Sam slid one hand behind John’s head and held a glass of iced water to his lips.

It was like drinking liquid nitrogen, so cold it burned. But it did ease the dryness in his mouth and throat. “What’s wrong, Sam?”

“What’s wrong?” Sam repeated incredulously. “Dad, you let Dean think he’s got more than a day to get back here. Do you have any idea what this will do to him?” Sam stood, pacing away from the bed, and John. “You should have told us the truth, Dad!”

_Told you the truth about what?_ John struggled to think his way through it. He knew he had forgotten something. Something important that Sam was angry about. Though Sammy was always pissed about something. John couldn’t think through the fog in his head, through the pain and the heat, or through the overwhelming need. Sammy said _what this will do to Dean_. Dean. Dean...?

“Dean?” John asked, unable to articulate more of a question than that.

“You’re not even hearing me!” Sam threw himself back into the chair beside the bed. A moment later John felt the freezing pain of water again: Sam was dripping icy liquid over John’s face and his chest.

“I’m sorry, just stay with me, Dad. Stay with me, okay? I know this hurts, but it’s slowing down the rise in your body temperature. I’ve got to keep you cool, somehow.”

The words meant very little, but John understood the fear in Sam’s voice. “How long was I...?”

“It’s four hours since the succubus infected you. You’ve been drifting in and out. Dad” Sam’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Dad, the ice isn’t going to help for much longer. But...I know what will. You’ve got to let me help you.”

Again, it took John much longer than it should to make sense of Sam’s words. Sam _was_ helping him. So why did he say...? Then he understood. Comprehension made John colder than the ice. “Sammy, no. No.”

Sam got that stubborn, determined look John always dreaded. “Those fires you had me searching for and the boy who died last month. They were infected, weren’t they? Like you are. Like I was, years ago.”

John couldn’t answer. He didn’t need to answer.

“Fuck you, Dad! I watched Jessica die like that, I am not gonna lose you, too. I’m not gonna let it happen.”

John took a breath. “Sammy, you’re doin’ fine. Just keep doing this.”

Sam lifted the wet cloth again. “As long as it’s working.”

The next time Sam touched him with the icy cloth, it hurt so much John screamed aloud.

*

At some point, the pain faded.

Cool hands cupped John’s face. A face swam above him but his vision wouldn’t focus. He saw only that it was human. A body lay alongside his. Naked flesh against naked flesh.

_Please, Dad. I can’t watch you die like Jess. You’ve got to trust me._

Hands touching him. Human. Willing.

There was no thought in his mind. All that need crystalised into a single point of heat.

His cock found a warm, willing hole and he thrust.

*

John woke to find his son naked in his arms.

Adrenaline got him moving even before he fully understood what this meant. John scrambled back so fast he fell off the other side of the bed. He lay on the floor in an ungainly heap, staring at the ceiling. He had fucked Sam. His own son. He saw the handcuffs dangling from the headboard. John was no longer chained. How the hell did he get loose?

Sam appeared above him, leaning down from the bed. “Dad, it’s okay. Dad?”

John shook off Sam’s attempt to touch him. “Sammy, what did I do? My, god...”

“Dad, listen to me. It was the only way. I mean, look at you, it worked. Your body is cool, you’re conscious, thinking. You’re okay.”

“This is _not_ okay,” John protested, struggling to get on his feet. How the hell could Sam not see that?

Sam scrambled up, moving to John’s side, reaching out to him. “It’s not a fate worse than death, either,” he said calmly.

John tried to evade Sam’s touch again, but he failed. And the instant Sam’s hand met his arm, John’s cock was hot and hard with lust once more. It was as if the touch of Sam’s skin was a motherload of Viagra. He swore, trying to back away even as his body moved without his volition, running his hands over Sam’s muscular arms and chest. Sam began to move back toward the bed and John’s feet followed him.

“This is crazy, Sammy.” It was a weak protest, John’s rationality fading even as he spoke.

“It’s the only way to keep you alive until Dean gets back.”

The last of John’s control shattered and he pushed Sam back onto the bed. It shouldn’t be so easy to fuck his son. It shouldn’t feel so good to do it.

*

“Dad?” Sam said quietly, breaking a long silence.

John’s hand drifted slowly over Sam’s hip and thigh, all pretence at reluctance gone. “I’m still here.” He could keep the heat at bay longer if he kept touching Sam.

“When I was a kid When you... I mean, we...”

“Don’t.”

“I know what you put yourself through, that’s all. And I know if - when - we get through this, you’re gonna do it to yourself again.” Sam rolled onto his back, looking up at John. “Dad, I’m twenty three now, not twelve. I know what I’m doing.” As John’s hand stroked down his arm Sam covered John’s hand with his own and moved it, quite deliberately, down his body.

John stroked Sam’s cock slowly. The skin felt silky against his callused palm. This need to touch, this hunger for Sam’s flesh, John couldn’t entirely blame it on the succubus’ infection. “I’m not sure you do know”

“What don’t I know?” Sam’s voice was rough and he rocked his hips into John’s touch as he spoke. “I know this is going to fuck up our family. I know how freaking wrong it is that we have to do this. I know you used to watch me when I was a kid, reminding me what we did that night.” Sam reached up and kissed John. Against his lips he murmured, “And I know how messed up it is that I’m enjoying this...and so are you.”

Sam’s kiss was everything it shouldn’t be and it broke John’s heart even as he responded to it. Nothing satisfied this hunger. Every touch fuelled John’s unnatural lust: the roughness of Sam’s unshaven cheek, the taste of his mouth, the sweaty slide of flesh on flesh. How many times had he fucked Sam already? He was losing count but he knew it was more than a human man should be capable of. Too much for both of them and it still wasn’t enough. He kissed Sam fiercely and this time it was Sam who rolled on top of him, Sam whose cock pressed against John’s opening.

“Please,” John whispered and Sam thrust into his body, a starburst of pleasure and pain and desperate need.

When Sam cried out in orgasm, John knew he was going to Hell...if he wasn’t already there.

*

The click of the motel room lock woke John.

His body ached all over. He could barely even open his eyes. John struggled to raise his head as the door swung open.

“Dad? Sammy!”

Dean’s hand appeared first, his fingers curling around the edge of the door as he pushed it open. Then the rest of him slid into the room; he was balancing a large box on one hand. He stopped dead when he saw John...and Sam.

There was no possible way to hide or to make the scene look like anything but what it was. The room reeked of sweat and semen. The comforter was bunched up at the foot of the bed. Handcuffs dangled uselessly from the headboard. John and Sam were completely naked, their bodies entwined together on a sheet stained with come and sweat and blood.

The look on Dean’s face was a cold shower of reality.

It was Sammy who moved first, reaching down to pull the comforter over them. “Dean,” he said.

Dean seemed frozen in place, staring down at them both. “What the hell?”

Sam began to sit up. “Dean, it’s okay.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, balling a corner of the comforter in his lap.

John struggled to sit up, knowing he had to speak, but unable to think of anything that wouldn’t make this worse.

“Did you get everything we need?” Sam asked, his voice amazingly close to normal.

Dean swallowed visibly. “Yeah, I did, but...” He made an odd gesture toward the door behind him.

And that was when Jo Harvelle appeared, at a run. She was smiling until she came to a halt beside Dean, her eyes taking in the scene in the motel room.

*

### Aftermath

Shit happens.

Talking about the shit that happens isn’t the Winchester way. So they didn’t talk about it.

At first, there were odd moments when John noticed Sam watching him. Each time, John saw something in Sam’s face in that first instant: something he couldn’t read. Something that put a dark, empty pit in John’s stomach. But Sam always caught John’s eyes and his expression became guarded before he looked away.

But they never talked about it.

Jo turned out to be every bit Bill Harvelle’s daughter. She had been shocked, even a little frightened by the scene she walked in on, but somewhere in all the awkwardness she got over that. Or pretended convincingly, which amounted to the same thing. Little Jo stood up, did a hunters’ job, and did it well.

Why was Jo even there? Because Dean, worried that time was a factor, had called Ellen to see if she could help. Harvelle’s Roadhouse was closer than Bobby’s junkyard. John would have chewed him out for disobeying orders, but Dean’s hunch paid off. The bar was full of hunters and Ellen had almost everything Dean needed by the time he got there. There was, however, one item on the list that was a little tricky. The nearest person who could supply it refused to deal with a stranger. So Jo went with Dean to make the deal and Dean was in too much of a hurry to take her home before he’d given John the cure.

John didn’t need to chew him out for that decision. Dean would do it to himself.

And then there was Dean.

On the surface, Dean was his usual self. But John knew his eldest son too well. The brittle silences, the refusal to talk about anything more significant than a beer: they weren’t so much hints as they were anvils. John didn’t expect Dean to take what happened lightly. He’d raised Dean to be Sam’s protector; John could blame no one but himself that he’d suddenly become the thing that, in Dean’s mind, Sam needed protection against.

It was tearing Dean apart. John couldn’t make it right if Dean wouldn’t talk to him.

A year earlier, John would have forced the issue, at least enough to be sure it wouldn’t bite him in the ass at a critical moment. But that was a year before. Now it seemed like the best thing to do was take off - give Dean, and Sam as well, some time to work it out.

So he looked around for a hunt and found what looked like a poltergeist in Colorado. John grabbed the excuse to hit the road. Neither of the boys pointed out that John’s arm was still injured.

It was a hell of a long drive back to Bobby’s place.

John left the engine idling while Dean and Sam got their gear out of the truck; he wasn’t staying. “Give me a call when you get back on the road,” he suggested.

Dean nodded. “We will.” His smile was a little forced.

“I’ll stay in touch,” John promised. “Listen, Dean, there’s still a chance that there’ll be some consequences to what we did at the hospital. If you run into anything demonic...”

“We’ll let you know.”

John looked at Sam. “See you around, Sam,” he said awkwardly.

Sam nodded. “Dad” He glanced at Dean, “before you hit the road?” The rest was unspoken, but John understood the request.

He shut off the truck’s engine and walked a short distance with Sam.

Sam got right to the point. Dad, I know why you want to take this hunt, but, don’t forget about my vision, okay?”

John had forgotten, temporarily. “Which one?”

Sam gave an odd little smile. “The second one already happened, and I’m sure you figured that out for yourself. No, Dad, I’m talking about you trying to kill yourself.”

“That’s not going to happen, Sammy,” John tried to reassure him.

“Dad. The bar in my vision  where it happened. It was the Roadhouse. So like Bobby said, just keep it in mind, okay? And answer your damn voicemail this time!”

John smiled. “You’ve got a deal.”

*

It took a week to get rid of the poltergeist. When that was done John took out a werewolf in Arizona and by the end of the month his arm was healed and he was headed for Texas.

Neither of his sons called once.

**End of _The Eighth Deadly Sin_**

**Continued in _Slouching Toward Bethlehem II: Ceremony Of Innocence_**


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